It’s a dark night in Pax, like most of them are. But among all the districts of this screwed-up city that I call home, the Barrow is particularly bleak. You’d expect as much from a place named after a burial mound, I suppose. It’s got the cheapest, shittiest housing available in the city, and a ratio of three gang thugs to every one cop. And on average, that cop is more likely to be crooked than not. It’s also the part of the city where I grew up, where my shitheel parents got hooked on the super-drug that gave them powers they could barely control. Powers they used to take innocent lives in their neverending quest for another high.

These days, I don’t spend much time out of my suit, but when I do, I try to avoid the Barrow. At night, though, I don’t have the luxury of choosing where a case takes me. And tonight’s case is particularly grim. It feels appropriate that it should lead me here of all places.

Before I can do much more brooding about the subject, I sense someone behind me. Years of combat experience, coupled with my enhanced-learning ability, has honed my spatial awareness to a deadly point. Unless you have a solid stealth power, it’s virtually impossible to sneak up on me- especially not while I’m wearing this suit. The attack comes so quickly that I barely have time to think of it as Jason’s suit and correct myself before he strikes.

The attacker is wearing a hooded robe that conceals most of their body to me, aided by the darkness, but I clock them as male immediately based on posture, stance, and weight distribution. Of course, that only matters as far as chromosomes go, but I’ll have time to ask their pronouns later- once I’m done kicking their ass. For now, I intend to continue thinking of them as a him. It’ll make the punching easier.

Whoever he is, he’s relatively competent. Managed to get decently close before I became aware of his approach. And as soon as he sees me turning around, he strikes, charging forward and leaping into a flying kick. The leap alone tells me that he’s got some kind of enhanced strength, which means this probably isn’t the latest attempt on my life by the Society of Shadows. While I raise my hard-light shield to block the strike, I start running through a list of people this might be in my head, first my own enemies, then those I’ve inherited by taking up Jason’s mantle.

Enhanced strength or no, they don’t manage to break the shield, but a crack spiderwebs outward from the point of impact, and they kick off into a backflip, landing deftly a few feet away from me. With a different angle on them, I can see that he’s wearing a simple black mask that covers his entire face, save the eyes. The look in those eyes is one of determination.

“Who are you?”

That question should be coming out of my mouth, not his. This is Pax- everyone should know who I am. But I find myself compelled to answer regardless.

“I’m Hawkshaw.”

The mystery man scoffs.

“No, you are not. Hawkshaw is dead. This is known to me. You are merely a ghost. And ghosts are one of the many things I am a Banisher of.”

He puts enough emphasis on the word banisher that I know he’s using it as a proper noun. I have to be honest- it’s not a bad alias. Certainly doesn’t require as much explanation as ‘Hawkshaw’ does. Nobody’s asking him why he doesn’t wear a hawk symbol on his chest.

“Ghost-Banisher, huh? Don’t come crying to me when Bill Murray sues, pal.”

My jibe serves only to incense him, which is usually the point with these situations. Still, I get the feeling it may not have been the best move.

“You prove my point. That is not how Hawkshaw speaks. Do you intend to strike fear into the hearts of the scum of this city with… jokes?”

I look deep into his eyes, trying to tell whether it’s Jason under that mask, come back after all these months to test me. But it’s not him, even if I hear him in this man’s words. I set my jaw, incensed.

“Nah. I usually let my fists do that part.”

Banisher barks out a laugh, and we rush each other simultaneously. Point to him- he successfully managed to get under my skin, and that anger overrides my training and technique, exactly like Jason trained me not to let happen. My swing is sloppy, and he shifts out of the way more easily than he should have been able to. Then he strikes at my side, beneath my ribs, hard enough that it feels like I’m not wearing any armor at all. All while shouting out what I can only assume is the name of the attack.

“Soul-Scouring Hands of Holiness!”

Ridiculous name or no, the hit hurts. I bite down into the pain, let it give me clarity, and drive my elbow into his solar plexus. This guy’s technique is bizarre. He clearly knows how to fight, but he doesn’t move like he’s been trained, and he leaves himself more open than anyone at that level should. Then again, he doesn’t react as badly to the hit as most people would, so maybe he’s got some enhanced durability going on as well as the strength. That’s a point in my favor, though. Metahuman ‘bricks’ are over-reliant on their incredible toughness. It makes them think they don’t need to worry about defense, and I can exploit that.

As my opponent stumbles back, I notice for the first time that his hands are wreathed in what looks like white flame. A quick switch to thermals shows something interesting- none of the amplified heat you’d expect to see if any part of him was actually on fire. Clearly there’s something going on there, but it’s more likely to be a visual effect produced by his power than anything.

My anger fades as quickly as it flared up. I don’t have anything to prove to this guy, and acting like I did was a mistake. But I do have something to prove to myself, and fighting sloppy won’t help make it happen. Instead, I’m going to take him down with all the cold efficiency Jason would have employed.

Surging forward, I stomp one boot down on his foot, relying on the additional weight of my armor to make it hurt, and feel something crack in response. He doesn’t cry out, just grunts, but before he can retaliate, I slam my fist into his face twice in quick succession, then switch targets to hit him in the chest, aiming to crack some ribs. Judging by his reaction, I’d say I was successful. Only then, fighting through the pain, does he get a chance to strike back. Using my other arm, I deflect the blow, preventing him from hitting me in the abdomen, and redirecting the fist into a more heavily armored part of my body. As I watch, however, his fist passes right through my armor as if it’s not there, and strikes the flesh underneath. The satisfaction of understanding how his power works is almost worth the pain.

“Lifeblood of the Imm—”

I cut Banisher off with a blow to the throat, momentarily blocking his windpipe. Then I sweep his legs and send him to the ground, before resting my boot on his chest. The way he fights makes me think he hasn’t dealt with anyone on my level before. That’s the way it goes for a lot of people in Pax. They beat up a few street thugs and get overinflated egos, then run into someone who wholly outclasses them. Luckily for him, I’m gentler than most of the other things that lurk in the shadows of this city.

“I’m only gonna ask once. Who sent you after me?”

Banisher struggles for a moment, trying to move my boot, but the white flames are gone, and I’m not that easy to budge.

“I serve no master,” he coughs, “save the Maker.”

That doesn’t sound like any enemy of Jason’s or mine, and I have a pretty good memory when it comes to people who want me dead.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“You should,” he replies, voice turning fervent. “He is the one true god of this world.”

I’d facepalm, if I didn’t think it would look ridiculous with the helmet on.

“Fuck’s sake. I know the church isn’t exactly a fan of me, but I didn’t think they’d resort to hiring assassins.”

“I am no mercenary, and I do not serve the terrestrial churches or their false messiahs. The Maker is beyond their understanding. He chooses a select few, and blesses them with a fraction of his power.”

So he thinks he works for a god that gave metahumans their powers? I’ve heard weirder reasons for unprovoked assault, but not many.

“How does that translate to attacking me?”

He’s still breathing heavily, clearly not comfortable being interrogated like this. Right now, I could care less about his comfort.

“The Maker chose me to protect the Barrow. From the scum of the streets, the murderers in uniform, and even from ghosts such as yourself.”

All of a sudden, things become clear. He’s unstable, dangerous, maybe even a little unhinged. But anyone in a mask is some mix of those three. That doesn’t make him my enemy. He’s a vigilante, one of the many that sprung up in Jason’s absence. Most of them don’t manage to last a week, and it’s possible this guy won’t either. But if he’s serious about protecting the people of this part of the city, I have no right to forbid him. At least, not without giving him a chance to prove himself.

“If that’s true, you might be interested to know that there’s a much bigger threat than me currently running around.”

“…go on.”

“I don’t know if you’re too busy praying to read the papers, but there’s a serial killer loose. About a dozen bodies to his name already… not to mention half the city zoo. I tracked him to an apartment not too far from here.”

Banisher starts trying to get my boot off his chest again, this time more violently. When it becomes clear I’m not moving, he stops, and slams his fist against the rooftop in frustration.

“Release me! I will seek your killer out and end him!”

“You’re not in any shape to—”

“Lifeblood of the Immortal Dragon!”

For an instant, Banisher’s entire body burns with white flame. When it fades, he shoves my boot off of him and kips up to his feet. The hooded robe covers enough of his body that I can’t tell for sure, but I have a feeling all of his wounds just got healed. That’s a useful trick, if so.

“You were saying?”

“Fair enough. But you still shouldn’t run off on your own. If I could take you down that easily—”

“I was holding back,” he snarls.

“Sure. Point is, we can take him down together. I’ll prove that I’m the real deal, and you can prove to me that you aren’t gonna get yourself killed running around out here.”

Banisher doesn’t seem pleased at the notion that he needs to prove anything to me. Hopefully the irony registers sooner rather than later. Still, he’s silent for a moment, then relents.

“Very well, ghost. Tell me of this killer.”

“It’s a bad one, and I’ve seen my share. Eleven victims so far, though there could be more that haven’t been found. All of them cut open, with most of their skeletons… removed. Then somebody at the zoo found a bunch of animals with their heads missing. Could be unrelated, but I somehow doubt there are two bone thieves in the same city.”

It’s a point in Banisher’s favor that he doesn’t blanch at the mental image of dismembered corpses with their skeletons torn out. Admittedly, he hasn’t seen the pictures, much less witnessed them in person. But most people would be vomiting through their masks right now. Maybe whatever psychosis he’s got is helping him, or maybe he’s got more experience than I’ve been giving him credit for.

“The victims… was there any pattern to them?”

“Not that I could find,” I reply, nodding approvingly. “No personal connections, nobody I could link them to. Seemed like attacks of opportunity. People jogging at night, doors and windows left unlocked.”

“How did you identify the killer’s location, then?”

Seems like I’ve got a wannabe detective on my hands. That’s probably a good thing, though. Better than a headstrong nutcase who doesn’t think things through.

“Found fragments of metal inside one of the victims, from where he was cutting them open. He was using a hacksaw, not a scalpel, and the blade broke while he was using it. Spent a while looking, eventually found where he tossed the handle. Guess he figured he was far enough away that he didn’t need to be as careful avoiding security cameras as he was on the way in. Or he was just overconfident after so many successful kills, and he got sloppy. Either way, cameras got a good look at his face, I ran a search, and turned up an address around here.”

“That’s… almost disappointing.”

I chuckle.

“Expecting something more glamorous? Hate to burst your bubble, but most detective work doesn’t involve big dramatic reveals. Just a lot of digging through the trash.”

“You can keep your lessons. The Maker will guide me to any in need of my judgement.”

“Well, I’m doing the guiding this time. But you can think of me as his emissary, if that helps.”

Banisher scoffs, but doesn’t offer any further complaints as I set off across the rooftops. Whatever his other failings, he clearly knows how to navigate the city, and manages to keep pace with me for the most part. Despite the length of his vestment, and the hood he wears, neither his movement or vision seem impeded in the slightest. Perhaps a baseline level of superhuman gracefulness is another perk of his powers. I’ve developed something similar through the accumulation of various skills, such that I now move with a level of precision that occasionally draws comment. I can’t remember the last time I stubbed my toe or slipped on ice- some part of my brain is unconsciously scanning for even the smallest of obstacles and guiding me to avoid them.

As we cross the gap between one roof and the other, I spot someone sitting in a lawn chair, a six-pack resting next to him, facing in the exact opposite direction. There’s a pair of binoculars in his hand, and he’s slumped backwards, likely having fallen asleep. I think I know why he’s there, too. He’s a part of a group that calls themselves the Birdwatchers, based on a misunderstanding of the ‘Hawk’ part of Hawkshaw. They’re the closest thing I have to a fanclub, staying out late at night hoping to catch a candid picture, and collecting as much information on my activities as I can. Some profess a genuine admiration for what I do, others a perverse fascination, and I’m sure a few are undercover police trying to co-opt their network in order to catch me. I’ve got a backdoor into their database, though, and if they ever start to put anything serious together, like the locations of my safehouses, I’ll shut them down completely. Until then, they’re just a minor annoyance.

Besides that, the journey across the Barrow is uneventful. Besides the relatively complex task of doing parkour in a suit of metal armor and a trenchcoat, most of my mind is occupied by memories of my childhood. Pax isn’t a pleasant place to grow up, and it was even worse in the early years of Jason’s crusade, back before his reputation alone was enough to take down most opponents. Our destination isn’t the exact building where I grew up, but from the outside it’s virtually indistinguishable. The same dull grey exterior that seems like it would be more at home in a Soviet city than an American one. I understand there are some benefits to a highly homogenized design from an urban planning perspective, but it doesn’t make things look less bleak when you’re actually living there. The Barrow is full of buildings just like it, most of them completely identical. Seven stories tall, something like fifty units per building, and even though the city has gotten better about things like this since I was a kid, it wouldn’t shock me if most of them still don’t have central heating that’s up to code.

As I come to a stop on a rooftop with a good view of the apartment complex, the Banisher follows suit just behind me. Folding his arms, he regards the building like a jungle cat preparing to pounce.

“This is the place?”

“Yes. Apartment 6D.”

“I presume you’ve already identified which window that corresponds to?”

“Actually, I was thinking of going in through the front door.”

Banisher shoots me a perplexed look, and I chuckle.

“Don’t worry. Security cameras don’t see me.” I toss a small circular device from my utility belt at him. “Put that on, and they won’t see you either.”

The digital cloak is a useful little gadget. My suit has one built in, but the portable version is handy to have for occasions just like this. Jason had a number of them, but he never let on about where they came from, or how to make more. I’m sure I could figure it out with a little bit of reverse-engineering, but the fact that I don’t even know who all my gear was built by is a little unnerving. It’s always served me well in the past, though, and I have little reason to believe that’ll suddenly change tonight.

“A boon from the Maker,” the Banisher says to himself, affixing the device to his robe.

“A boon from me. One I’ll take back, if you misuse it.”

He doesn’t argue the point, just nods solemnly. Then I leap off the roof without a word, freefalling for a few moments before the slow-fall module in my suit takes over and allows me to land safely on the sidewalk without a sound. I don’t look back, trusting the Banisher to make his own way down. He does so a moment later, landing beside me with a sound like a thunderclap, though I notice that his impact doesn’t shatter the sidewalk the way one might expect it to. There’s a faint glow surrounding his legs, which dissipates a moment after he touches down. Another application of his abilities, no doubt.

The two of us cross the short distance to the front door of the apartment complex quickly. Jason and I used to be stricter about sticking to the shadows, but now that we’re digital ghosts, it’s less of an imperative. So long as there’s no visual record of us, it doesn’t matter if a handful of people happen to spot us while we’re on the job. Getting inside is no object- the external locks on a building like this are ancient, the kind I could crack with my eyes closed. Before going any further, however, I check the mailboxes in the lobby. The name next to 6D is the same that came up when I ran facial recognition on the security footage of the killer. Harlan Mitchum. It never hurts to double-check with this sort of thing, to make sure I’m not about to kick down an innocent person’s door and scare them half to death, or worse. That kind of sloppiness is exactly how people get killed.

Without any debate, the Banisher and I both head for the elevator. Our man is on the sixth floor, and if we’ve got a fight coming, it’ll be better not to be out of breath. On the other hand, there’s something distinctly uncomfortable about standing in a relatively well-lit apartment complex lobby waiting for the elevator, as if we aren’t a pair of illegal vigilantes. The same goes for standing in the elevator as it rattles its way up. I suppress the urge to start tapping my fingers on the railing, while the Banisher silently cracks his knuckles in anticipation.

Finally, there’s a staticky ding, and the doors open jerkily, allowing us to step out into the hallway. I check my corners reflexively, and my partner follows suit belatedly. Somewhat concerning that it’s not his first impulse, but maybe he’ll pick up a few good habits from me. In this case it’s irrelevant, as the hallway is empty aside from us. The unshielded fluorescent lights above flicker intermittently, providing the only source of illumination given the lack of windows. My boots clack against the linoleum tiles as I make my way towards the apartment at the end of the hall. Before we get to the door, however, I hold up a fist towards Banisher, indicating that he should stop. Then I pull up the Watson feed on my helmet’s HUD.

The drone typically shadows me from a distance when I’m on patrol, and automatically goes into overwatch mode when I enter a building. Taking the controls, I direct it to the window on the other side of the apartment. The blinds are closed, but not thick enough to prevent me from using Watson to do a thermal scan of the apartment, which isn’t possible from my current position, as the walls themselves are too thick. Whatever else the architects cut corners on, it wasn’t that- mostly because nobody would get any sleep otherwise. Too much screaming.

Thermals confirm that there’s a single person inside the apartment, likely an adult male based on body type and build. That’s about as much confirmation we’re going to get, short of knocking on the door and politely asking if the person who answers is a serial killer. Disconnecting from the drone feed, I gesture at the Banisher, then towards the door, and he nods in understanding. Murmuring something under his breath- presumably another of his strange prayers to the ‘Maker’ -he approaches, a black flame engulfing him. With a single kick, he sends the door flying off its hinges, giving us our first proper look into the apartment. For a moment, it looks like there’s an actual human skeleton propped up in the corner of his apartment’s entranceway, but closer inspection reveals that it’s an anatomical model, perhaps pilfered from a high school science classroom. Looking beyond that, though, makes it clear that this is the right place.

There are other skeletons all throughout the apartment, and no two look exactly the same. A few appear to have twice as many ribs as normal, others have none at all. Some have four arms, or one, or their arms and legs have been switched. I spot one with human skulls affixed to the shoulders, and a canine skull where the normal one should be. That proves to be a theme- very few of them have human skulls in the correct place. Instead, they’ve been replaced with the heads of animals large and small. One of them has a huge mouse skull that looks like it’s made out of regular-sized mouse skulls that have been fused together somehow. On the other hand, there are a number of animal skeletons with human skulls. All of them are in different poses and positions. A quick headcount indicates that there are at least half again as many victims here as I was already aware of.

In the dining room, Mitchum stands over his table, which has newspapers spread out over it, cleaning what looks like a bear skull with viscera still dripping off of it. Of course, he’s already looking up when we spot him, as our entrance wasn’t exactly subtle. He’s got a five o’clock shadow and a look in his eyes that tells me he hasn’t slept in days. Bloodstains on his grey shirt and wild, unkempt hair, as well as a necklace with a number of small animal skulls attached.

“No! No, no, no. Not now. You can’t stop me from freeing them! I won’t let you!”

As he speaks, Mitchum raises his hands upwards in a gesture almost resembling exultation. In response, bones burst up from the floorboards and spear themselves into the ceiling. Thick as tree trucks and wrapped together, they close us off from him completely. Before I can do anything about it, though, the skeletons surrounding us begin to move.

This isn’t entirely unexpected. Serial killers are more common in Pax than any other city in the United States, but most of them aren’t quite insane enough to go around collecting bones. That sort of psychosis tends to indicate a metahuman killer, and in this case, it stands to reason his power would have something to do with bones. His abilities seem fairly broad, as he was able to create a wall of bones that clearly didn’t develop naturally, unless he managed to somehow pilfer the bones of a giant, as well as animating the various skeletons he ‘freed,’ whatever that means. Part of me feels bad about essentially desecrating the corpses of the people I’m ostensibly here to avenge, but it’s not like I have much other choice- they’re pretty clearly intent on killing me in service of their master.

Still channeling the black flame, the Banisher attacks with abandon. His blows are powerful enough to break one of the skeletons apart entirely, but one of the multi-armed ones manages to sneak up from behind and restrain him. Before I can do anything to help, however, I’m faced with a number of my own opponents. They don’t have the decency to all wait their turn, so I’m forced to take them all on at once.

It swiftly becomes apparent that my fists alone aren’t going to do the trick. If I’m not holding back, I can hit hard enough to break some ribs and fracture some skulls, but that isn’t particularly useful here, as these things don’t seem to feel pain. On the other hand, none of them can hit hard enough to really hurt me, but there are enough of them to overwhelm me with numbers, which means I need to try another strategy.

Forcing the horde away with a swing of my arm, I retrieve a weapon from the inside of my coat. Not the usual batons I rely on for melee combat, as those wouldn’t do much better than my hands in this instance. Instead, it’s the collapsible sledgehammer I picked up in London, courtesy of the Specialist. Extending it with a flick of my wrist, I take a swing at the nearest skeleton, the one with the arm-legs and leg-arms. Its spine snaps like a twig and it tumbles down, but both halves remain animate, trying to claw their way towards me, so I stomp on the skull and feel it crunch. That seems to do the trick.

A sledgehammer is a fairly unwieldy weapon, especially in close quarters. I’m forced to pick up Mitchum’s TV and beat back the crowd just to get enough space for another proper swing. This time, I knock the skull made of smaller skulls clean off, and it bursts apart upon hitting the wall. Before I can go any further, however, one of the dog skeletons with a human skull tackles me, jaw gnashing as it does its best to rip out my throat. Weapon knocked aside, I’m forced to grip the skull between my fingers and crush it. The enhanced strength afforded to me by my armor helps, and once the skull has shattered, the rest of the dog skeleton goes limp, allowing me to kick it off and get back to my feet.

While I was doing that, the Banisher managed to free himself, tearing off all three arms of the skeleton holding him back, and beating it with them. Since the skulls seem to be a weak point, I’m almost tempted to start shooting them, but the risk of hitting someone in an adjacent apartment is too great- and I don’t get many opportunities to bash skulls with a sledgehammer without feeling guilty.

Watching the Banisher in action against these things is fairly impressive. He uses the environment to his advantage, robes whirling around him as he slashes a hand through one of the skeletons and turns it to dust. There’s a flourish to the way that he fights, but it doesn’t seem like he’s showing off. It’s just a natural consequence of the way his ability, and his mind, works. I’m generally more methodical, sweeping the legs of one skeleton as it smashes a bony fist against my armor, and then crushing its skull with the hammer when it topples to the ground.

The two of us deal with the remainder of the skeletal warriors fairly swiftly. Bone is far from brittle, but it’s not exactly the toughest material in existence. Whatever intelligence animates these things doesn’t astound, either. They mostly try to grasp and claw at us, and don’t seem capable of changing tactics even when that fails. As the dust settles, and the last few fragments of bone break underfoot, the Banisher and I lock eyes.

“Most impressive,” he says at last, “for a ghost.”

I don’t bother responding, just approach the wall of bone and start taking the sledgehammer to it. However, several solid hits on the same spot fail to produce more than a few hairline fractures. These bones seem as if they’re solid, perhaps not even containing any marrow. Collapsing the hammer and tucking it back into my coat, I step back and let the Banisher have at it. If nothing else, I could resort to using explosives, but with any luck things won’t come to that.

His black flames seem to have burned themselves out, and the Banisher is still for a moment, eyes closed, one fist pressed into his flat palm, almost as if he’s meditating. Then he shouts, loud enough that I’m certain Mitchum can hear him even on the other side of the barrier.

“Banisher’s Burning Blows Obliterate All Impediments!”

Hands once more consumed with black fire, he draws both arms back and strikes the bone-barrier with both fists simultaneously. The resulting shockwave rattles the shattered skeletons and scatters stray miscellania off of Mitchum’s shelves. It also destroys the barrier entirely, leaving only the fractured stumps on the ground. He’s facing away from us, wearing what looks to be some kind of armor, made from enough bones to cover his entire body- save the head. Before turning around, he dons the bear skull like a helmet, and it locks into place with the rest of the armor. When our eyes meet, the sockets of his skull-mask light up red.

“Hawkshaw! I won’t let you stop me,” he proclaims. “I must free your bones from their prison of flesh!”

As expected, he’s completely insane. I crack my neck and charge.

Whatever benefits Mitchum’s armor confers, speed isn’t one of them. It’s hard to tell what his weak points might be, because it seems as if the armor was made from the strongest bones available, and may well be enhanced the same way his barrier was, but targeting the joints is always a good option. He swings at me, but it’s over-telegraphed and slow, likely due to the additional weight. I catch the fist easily and bend his arm back. The armor locks in place before I can snap the joint entirely, but judging by the way his arm drops limply to his side when I let go, it’s badly fractured. Mitchum snarls and headbutts me with unexpected force. My own mask protects me, but I take a step back, allowing the Banisher space to attack.

My ally strikes rapidly, hammering Mitchum with body blows. They chip off bits of his armor, but fail to do much more damage, despite the black flame. Then Mitchum drives a knee into the Banisher’s gut and delivers a punishing uppercut with his good arm. Extending the sledgehammer once more, I swing it at the back of his other knee, trying to drive him down onto the ground, but the armor is tough enough to protect him for the most part. Instead, he just staggers forward and swings wildly at me, clocking me across the head without much force.

Wiping some blood from his face, the Banisher calls out to me.

“Create an opening!”

Mitchum’s stance isn’t exactly professional, so it takes me a moment to realize what the crusader means. Not an opening in his guard, but in the armor itself. That, I can do. I cast the hammer to the side- it’s not precise enough for this task. Going after the chest was the Banisher’s mistake- center of mass is the easiest target, but always the most heavily-armored. Joints, not so much. And nowhere more so than the neck. Too much armor there and you won’t be able to turn your head.

Hooking my fingers into the edge of his armor, I pry with all my might, while Mitchum does his best to bash my skull in. Fortunately, the enhanced strength granted to him by his armor only goes so far, and my helmet was meant to protect me from bullets. Given long enough, maybe he could crack it, but not before I manage to break off a chunk of armor around his neck, exposing his vulnerable flesh. Just as soon as I’ve done that, he forces me away with an awkwardly-angled kick.

“Fangs of Fury! Vengeance of the Viper!”

The black flame around the Banisher’s hands turns purple, and he surges forward. He pulled off one of his gloves at some point, and now digs his nails into Mitchum’s neck. They don’t penetrate deep enough to do much more than draw some blood, but that seems to be enough. As soon as the Banisher draws his hand back, the killer seizes up, collapsing to the ground. Hacking coughs come through the mask, and the red light in his eyes begins to fade, while blood dribbles from his wounds down to the ground.

Breathing heavily, I keep my eyes on Mitchum for several moments, making certain he’s no longer a threat. Then I turn to the Banisher.

“Is he dead?”

“No. Merely paralyzed. This is your city, and I will respect your rules. Whenever possible, we give the system a chance to serve its function. Only if it fails do we dispense our own justice.”

Mitchum may not be dead, but by the sound of it, he probably wishes he was. Whatever weird soul-poison the Banisher used on him, it’s clearly not pleasant.

“Does that mean I’m not a ghost anymore?”

“Indeed. I can deny it no longer. You are Hawkshaw.”

“Good. Now, help me get this armor off of him before the cops arrive.”

Mitchum’s armor doesn’t come off easily, so we’re forced to break it off piece by piece. Once that’s done, we take the fire escape up to the roof, while the cops show up to haul the killer off. However broken the justice system is, it rarely fails to properly prosecute someone so obviously guilty.

Watching the proceedings through the Watson feed, I take a seat on an AC unit, feeling it hum faintly beneath me. The Banisher sits down on the ground, folding his legs into the lotus position. For a moment, everything is silent, then he begins murmuring another prayer to himself, as a white glow surrounds him, presumably healing whatever wounds he sustained in the fight. I wait until he’s finished to speak.

“Do you name all of your attacks?”

“No. I merely speak the words the Maker grants me.”

More proof for the thesis that psychosis and metahuman abilities are comorbidities, I suppose. At least the Banisher’s version isn’t compelling him to cut people up.

“I see. And is there any particular reason you protect the Barrows, besides the will of the Maker?”

He’s silent for a few seconds, eyes still closed.

“This was the crucible in which I was forged. The Maker blessed me with strength, that I might prevent others from suffering the same fate.”

In other words, he grew up here. Just like me.

“Well, I’m glad to know this part of town will be in good hands, even when my responsibilities call me elsewhere.”

“And I will rest easy knowing the legacy of this city’s guardian is in good hands.”

The Banisher stands, and clasps my hand.

“May you banish any demon foolish enough to stand in your way.”